The Cruel Reality of Tail Wind Conversion,

Yesterday the sun was shining. Today the deluge returned. Am I jinxed when it comes to cycling on the Isle of Wight? Nothing to worry about though - I had cycled in the pouring the rain the other day and at least this time the route was much shorter (35 miles). I had also already cycled the first 10 miles or so and as such was mentally prepared for what was ahead. So there it was, me on the trek again as the cats and dogs rapped on my lid.

The route had a few climbs, and heading West I was cycling into a head wind. To be honest it was relaxing to be out on my bike in my own world, enjoying the views - I didn't seem to really care about the weather today. At Totland I broke away from the A3055 onto the B3322. As I neared the Needles the wind really picked up and the climbs steepened. As I came alongside the visitor centre (arcades and merry-go-rounds) I continued up the hill, ignoring a sign stating no vehicles (surely bikes didn't count) and pedalled up onto the exposed head land. The views and winds were monumental. A couple of steep switch backs (which really wouldn't have been out of place in the Alps) delivered me to the rocket and missile development centre where I dropped (by virtue of the wind) my bike against a rail. Walking to the edge of the spit of land I could barely stay upright as a class of Farr 65s put the winds to good use in an attempt to race around the island.

Satisfied that I had taken in enough of the views I back tracked to coffee and chocolate. I wasn't particularly hungry but figured if I was having a break it would be rude not to have a kitkat as I watched the wet world of grumpy teenagers on a week away, stomp past. Cycling West was into a head wind so as I switched directions I expected a pleasant tail wind. The riding was going well today and I painfully found at speed that I was converting the tail wind to a head wind. I guess slowing down would have helped but solving the equation for equilibrium in my head was a step too far.

At the viewpoint over Yarmouth I again stopped to look out over the sailing but instead I marvelled at the state of one of the parked cars. For a split second a tut passed my lips followed by a stream of internal dialogue along the lines of 'teenagers today' but I soon corrected myself. I couldn't display such characteristics of aging otherwise that would mean I was, well, maturing. No no no. Instead I got back on the bike and bombed it up and down hills as fast as I could attempting the odd bunny hop whenever a curb presented itself.

Back at the house the sun was out but I just couldn't resist an afternoon nap. Getting old? Never.

Around the Island in 58 Miles

Having checked the weather forecast for the week ahead, for at least the 5th time this morning, it dawned on me this wasn’t a luxury I normally afforded. In fact I can’t remember the last time I looked at the weather and decided against a ride. It was time to get onto my bike and battle those gusts of 30 mph. If it's good enough for the hardy sailors, then it's good enough for me. I could dream about the Big Sur the whole way - my psyche need never even venture to the IOW.

My plan was simply to circumnavigate the Isle of Wight in an arbitrarily chosen clockwise direction. Every blog I had read on the Internet suggested this direction and happy to follow someone else’s lead I assumed this would reward me with kinder gradients. In fact starting from Cowes, meant I endured endless undulations all long and steep enough to constitute climbing, coincidentally timed with torrential rain. By the South of the island my ability to imagine myself in warmer climes was being severely tested. Was it ever going to stop raining?

I have to admit that our cycling through Oregon and California had somewhat confused my senses. I wasn’t really dressed adequately and by my fourth climb before Ryde, my feet were already turning into prunes. I had slipped into the lazy state of waking in the morning to put on a vest and shorts. I had forgotten that UK cycling isn't really as luxurious as this. Frustratingly it was raining so hard I couldn't wear my sunnies unless I wanted to pedal head first into a hedge.

Leaving on the A3055, a climb took me to the B3330, past the Flamingo Park and into Nettlestone. Through moments of loathing induced by high winds and continual rain, I still found myself drifting back to the sunny West Coast, only to awaken from my trance on St Helens Common by a sign to Bembridge with a number I was not expecting. I had confidently told Tim this morning that I would direct myself by a map and not my usual written cues keen to prove women do have spacial awareness.... I was teetering dangerously close to the edge of in fact disproving this, as I plumped to ignore the map and follow the signs.

Trying not to be too smug, it was the perfect decision as I shortly came alongside Bembridge Harbour, only to lose my bearings not even a mile later. I couldn't help but curse cartographers who seem to think it is logical to label maps with the road classification and yet roads with their names. How does that help anyone? Yes - that's right my inability to read a map is the fault of the map writers and nothing to do with never having progressed past Never Eating Shredded Wheat (North, East, South, West). I considered asking a dear who got off her bike to walk across the junction (!) where I was faltering but I was fighting for independence here and I was determined to win it on my own.

Finally back on the B3395 I passed Bembridge Airport and the granny on the mountain bike who had left me in directional confusion some minutes back. Her legs were going somewhat it has to be said, but for a few split seconds I wondered whether I should point out if she changed up a gear or two she may actually move somewhere...

By now the continual short sharp climbs, the unceasing rain and the monumental head winds had amalgamated into one big slap in the face. I had thankfully relearned how to balance an unloaded bike out of the saddle but going down hill in such conditions made me feel like I was tottering in stilettos on a wet marble floor. A milk float could have overtaken me I was being so cautious.

At Sandown I stopped for photos of the bleak landscape and a mars bar, although of course all were diversionary tactics in an attempt to hide from the rain. The miles were adding up but not quite at the speed I had hoped for - I may as well have been cycling the route on knobbly tyres and suspension as at least then I would have had an excuse for pedalling slower than a slow thing.

Pulling onto the A3055 I motored on through Luccombe Down and Nansen Hill. At Ventnor I momentarily debated whether missing the road down to the Undercliff could be construed as cheating or not - happy that it was technically a side trip I continued on my way. Additional climbing in such conditions could only have been for those insane types who think that climbing Alp D'Huez with a sweep wagon nipping at their heels is fun. I bet none of you realised we had our own equivalent of the alps on the Isle of Wight.

Shortly after St. Lawrence and half way up a hill I heard a clatter. Happy with my 'at motion' inspection of the bike, I pedalled on, only to realise at the top of the hill that I was missing my full bottle of water. Down the hill? Back up the hill? I don't think so, and so I resigned myself to adding to the road detritus that I always complain about. At Niton I stopped for water in the Post Office and an impromptu tuna sandwich which allowed me time to dry off a little. As luck had it the weather also decided to get it's act together and as I left armed with enough sugar to send a small child into a sugar fuelled rampage, I channelled my sugar rush straight through the pedals.

As I continued along the South Coast I passed a sign for a dinosaur farm - curious I thought, although not enough to tempt me off course. Near Chine I rounded a corner to meet the back tyre of a fellow cyclist. Feeling a little guilty I passed him only to see two more friends up ahead, and my pursuit began. I felt a little fraudulent as I boosted my ego by catching and then overtaking them. I was after all on a road bike and them on full suspension but nonetheless I said hello on the way past, making sure not to pant as I said it, before pedalling off at speed. Such brevado for someone who was also struggling with the route.

The route then became flat and I pedalled like the wind in glorious sunshine. Somewhere near Hanover Point however the route started to rise again and I couldn't understand why I was still going into a head wind. Two climbs brought me up along Compton Down where I moved inland towards Freshwater and Totland. Cheating again crossed my mind but I would only have saved 500m at most and bearing in mind that cheaters never prosper I feared I would encounter a steeper climb as pay back. At Totland I had considered going out to the Needles but quite frankly I was too tired.

A great descent took me into Yarmouth where I stopped at a viewing point to look out at the sailing. At Shalfleet I took a left towards Newtown past the old town hall, and through woodland. The contrast to the corn fields of the South was at it's most evident as I passed brook and copse. From Newtown I passed through Porchfield and finally into Northwood before returning back to the house, wet and worn out. I of course later deluded myself that it had been a great route and maybe in better conditions I would try it again. For now a beer with the guys seemed like a worthy reward.

A Stretch of the Legs from London to Suffolk, 112 miles

Pulling onto Sutherland Avenue I retraced my old work commute until joining Camden Road towards Finsbury Park, as I set off for Brundish in Suffolk. It was a joy to realise, post tour, that Camden Road no longer felt like that irritating hill that shouldn't be. pannier free, and astride my road bike after our long Atlantic separation, the incline barely registered as the traffic lights, in my favour, swept me onto Seven Sisters Road.

New territory was afoot. Not only was it my first long solo ride, but I was navigating eastwards contrary to our habitual routes through Richmond Park. After Tottenham Hale a gentle climb through suburbia culminated in some last minute manoeuvres to avoid the North Circular - neither the on-ramp nor the speeding lorries made this an appealing error to have made.

The A104 carried me into the welcome shade of Epping Forest, before becoming the B1393. Epping came and went in a blink, with its small market town character and grannies reversing blindly into the traffic. South of Harlow i joined the B181. The route was undulating at most and although my speedo was a little wayward, I was averaging somewhere between 32 and 40k.p.h. The traffic was light, the road surface conducive to high speeds and I had only just noticed I was battling a head wind. Far from debilitating, it was a confidence boost to realise the benefits of our tour were far reaching. Short climbs and head winds were still tough. I still had to work hard, but I could sustain higher levels of work for longer and a few peaks were even reached without realising I had been climbing.

Pedalling on, I crossed the M11 into the glorious rolling countryside of North Weald Bassett, through endless villages and painfully inviting public houses. As I navigated to Moreton I was thankful for my OS map as it became apparent the road names I had taken from Google maps weren't going to be presented to me. At Fyfield I turned North on the B184 to enjoy fields of wheat and barley and barely any traffic.

A brief stint on the A1060 took me to Leaden Roding where I stopped for a snack and a consult of the map. I marvelled at the pink card machine in the corner shop, which was met on the whole by silence, reminding me it may take a while to readjust to the UK stiff upper lip. The B184 took me to Great Dunmow where my navigation skills experienced a brief interlude 10m past my required right hand turn. I was sufficiently unsure enough to stand on the edge of the road looking lost as I poured over my map. No-one approached, not even when I started to looking around wildly for the neon arrow pointing 'Beth in the right direction'. Sugar levels were needing attention and having failed to attract any help with what I thought was magnetic, 'I'm lost' bike charm, I sidled back to the previous junction to notice a map of the town centre. perfect - all was not lost and least of all me.

The B1057 took me past endless farms. At one point I metaphorically patted myself on the back for dusting a tractor and it's tail of traffic, but by pretty Finchingfield I beginning to think I should slow down and eat more to prevent the dreaded bonk. It was hot and calories weren't appealing so I was painfully aware I needed to take the matter in hand. In the shade of the village sign I donned sun-tan lotion and ate another cereal bar. The sugar of the jelly beans I was eating as I pedalled were beginning to leave that sacarine sweet taste in my mouth and as a result nothing else tasted particularly great.

The B153 looked to start with a steep climb but round the corner it soon petered out, as I realised Suffolk was not a hilly county. After Weathersfield, and with Hadleigh in my sights, I tearily phoned Tim asking for a helicopter to lift me to food - a bonk was evidently nigh but adrenaline kept me going. I continued to munch on bars, and was still managing to top 20mph but the legs were beginning to wobble, hindering my stubbornness to keep going until Hadleigh.

The B1058 joined the A131 to circumnavigate Sudbury. Down to my last snack, I pushed on but as I covered the first couple of miles along the A134 I realised I had noted the distance from Sudbury to Hadleigh in km when they were in fact miles. The A1071 came soon enough, with heavier traffic and those kind of undulations that look awful as you pedal towards them only to find the up portion only lasts for a few hundred metres. Like vanishing peaks and dips, I was enjoying vanishing climbs, but I was crawling along in need of food and Hadleigh could not come soon enough.

Impressed there was a road sign for Coram Street, I turned off and into Hadleigh where I was meeting Lindsay. Unused to the stretched geometry of my trek, every sip of coke made me feel sick. Nonetheless a hearty jacket potato, one mars bar and 40 minutes of shut eye later Linds arrived having endured a 15 mile detour as a result of one wrong turn. Energised I jumped onto my bike, but by Needham Market, Lindsay was now in need of calories as he inhaled two chocolate bars. Riding on the wave of a sugar rush Linds navigated us faultlessly along the B1078, B1077, A1120 and finally the B1116 into Dennington and my Bed and Breakfast for the night.

My first trip back on the Trek had been brilliant. The more aggressive geometry wreaked havoc with my back, and the heat with my feet but the journey was the smooth and fast one I had missed whilst on my Marinoni. On the flat terrain I also found no need for my granny ring. The next test will be a long trip with far more hills - Devon perhaps for Erikas 30th.